


Do you know him?

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Series: Blonde hair, muscles, scars, and I've been told he has blue eyes [3]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Brass knuckles, Cliffhanger, Face-blindness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not really though, Prosopagnosia, There will be a continuation one day..., This was supposed to be a lot of angstier but somehow it isn't, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"What is his name?", they tried again, and as Q's eyes met the man's he shook his head because he didn't know. "Tell us his bloody name!"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I-I told you", he breathed out, biting his lower lip bloody, tasting iron and something bitter on his tongue, figuring it was bile from the head damage, "I-I don't know him."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you know him?

"I don't know him."

There was the sound of metal hitting flesh, and a grunt. Q blinked, wetting his lips, tasting blood.

Opposite to him, they hit the man again, all the time searching for something in Q's eyes, something which wasn't there because they seemed desperate.

There was so much blood.

It wasn't Q's, not all at least, some old and dried and heavy in the air smelling of dirt, death and rotten flesh, metallic and making his stomach turn. Most of it was the other man's, and in his face Q could read nothing.

Not that this was a new experience for him, or a new situation he didn't know how to deal with, but there was no pain.

And Q was usually very good in reading and recognising pain, especially when he was directly facing it.

He had seen so many agents crying and screaming in agony, had seen their tears and their faces distorted in sheer pain and madness washing over them, creeping through their beings and into their hearts, seperating agents from killers, and humans from weapons.

He could remember watching an agent burning in a quite literal kind of way, with flames eating at his clothes and flesh, with his tears running over his cheeks and screams leaving his mouth. He had listened to his begging and pleading, but it had already been too late.

Q had seen agents being torn apart, had watched them being killed with no way of interfering or helping - he had seen it all, and by now he knew how pain looked like.

But there wasn't any of this in the other man's facial expression, not even as they put a knife through his shoulder.

The Quartermaster didn't know how long either of them had been in here, sitting opposite to each other tied on chairs, with thick ropes around Q's torso.

They had practically made any movement from the other impossible, and judging from his muscles Q could understand why they had done this. He would probably be able to snap their necks in half with one simple and fluid movements, muscles flexing and tensing under scarred skin.

Q couldn't see much.

It was dark, they had taken his glasses, but he could see scars. He could see the muscles under the shirt they had left on, the jacket and tie thrown into the corner of the room to join Q's cardigan and his glasses.

They probably were dirty by now, and broken perhaps. He wouldn't be able to use them and would need some more, and if he was very unlucky they had destroyed the tracker in the frame of them. There was one in his shoulder too and one in his thigh, but judging from the pain he was in and from the blood still spilling down, soaking his white shirt, he figured it wasn't anymore.

Q wet his lips, in desperate need for water, but not stupid enough to trust them enough to not put poison in it.

He didn't know why he was here, why they had taken him, to what purpose or why the man in front of him was there too, but he had accepted his destiny and didn't try to get out.

Judging from his pulse he used as a timer, he had been conscious and awake for four hours by now, the man for three or two and a half - he wasn't sure.

Q couldn't remember how he got here, but he knew that he had been knocked out. Not because he could remember it, but because his head hurt and he could feel dried blood on the back of his head between his hair, wet and disgusting, some even running on his eyes as he lowered his head for a moment.

His neck hurt. His head was throbbing, his nose itching, and his fingers felt numb.

He would make sure that the agent who would get him out of here would shoot them in the head twice and in the groin thrice if there was any permanent damage on his fingers, and if he had to get the gun on his own and try to shoot.

Not that he wasn't capable of doing so, but he didn't like it. Shooting on a paper figure was one thing, but shooting into a human being - alive or not - was another. It made his stomach turn, and his heart rate increase.

"What is his name?", they tried again, and as Q's eyes met the man's he shook his head because he didn't know. "Tell us his bloody name!"

"I-I told you", he breathed out, biting his lower lip bloody, tasting iron and something bitter on his tongue, figuring it was bile from the head damage, "I-I don't know him."

One of the men, the one with the light limp Q had spotted around twenty minutes ago, turned to the tied man and lifted his hand.

The brass knuckles were already red, yet they still shone in the weak light falling into the room, electrical and blue and cold from the lamp above their heads. It shone and sparkled for a moment, a bit of blood dropping off it onto the ground.

There already was a puddle, so much blood, too much, he didn't know if the man would survive it or not.

Why was he here? Why were they **both** here, in one room?

Was he an agent? He had the body, certainly, and was probably handsome in a way or the other, but Q would never know.

He couldn't just ask, could he?

As the metalic knuckles collided with the man's skin, there was the ugly sound of skin and bones breaking, of blood spilling and there was a grunt again, no scream, no cry, only a grunt.

For a moment thought he recognised the sound, because it somehow was familiar, but as he felt a name on the tip of his tongue it was gone again, and he couldn't put a finger on it.

"Are you sure you don't know him?", another one asked - tall, American accent - and turned to Q, taking a few steps forward, "We can hurt him. We can kill him. Do you want us to?"

Why should Q care?

He didn't know this man.

He had no idea who he worked for, who he was, if he had family, friends, was in a relationship or not - _he didn't know him_.

And as much as he tried to tell himself that it wasn't fair, that this was another human being and that he should have cared about him because he wasn't cruel like a double-oh, he couldn't be arsed to care.

It wasn't his fault they were here, and it wasn't his fault he couldn't recognise faces. It wasn't his fault.

_Not my fault, not my fault, I am sorry stranger but not my fault, not my fault, fault, fault, not my fault._

They hit the man again and he spit out some blood, and what looked like a tooth, red and tiny and broken apart into two halves - one falling down right in front of the bare feet of the man, the other flying into a puddle of blood.

Q couldn't tell how many there were, but it were enough for him to wonder how the man even managed to stay conscious, not to mention how he managed to stay alive. Maybe it was the pain, maybe he was used to it.

Q only knew that he was in pain, and that it was Q's fault to some degree. He knew that he would most likely die, and that at the end of this all Q too, because they would realise he wasn't of any use for them.

There were advantages to being face-blind, and disadvantages. Q wasn't sure if it was the former or the latter at the moment, but he didn't waste too much energy on pondering about it.

"Look, you can hit him as often as you want, but I don't know him. I wouldn't even know him would he be my father or lover, because there is something called **Prosopagnosia** , and I happen to have it."

There was silence for a moment, and Q saw how the man tied onto the chair rolled his eyes, mouthed something Q couldn't read nor paid attention to.

"Stop talking, you arse, and tell us his name."

Q sighed. "I don't want to disappoint but it might be hard for me to tell you his name if I cannot talk", he mumbled, but loud enough for them to hear, "Even if I did know his name. Which I don't."

This time they didn't hit the man, but Q.

He saw the brass knuckles break his skin before he felt it, and he fell on the ground with his chair due to the force of the impact.

Q gasped and saw stars, the world dancing in front of his eyes, everything turning and spilling and swirling, voices and laughing and another grunt, and he didn't know if this was how dying felt or if he had just hit his head.

Either way, he tasted blood, and he spit it out onto the ground and groaned.

He didn't notice how they pulled him up again, or how the blood began to soak his collar, but whatever it was what he felt he didn't want to anymore, and considered to ask for painkillers or morphine. It was unlikely they would give him any, but he might hope, right? They needed him for something, so it was in their interest that he stayed alive and sane enough to talk.

"You have death wish, ain't 'ya?"

Oh wonderful, one of them really was American. Q felt hurt in his pride and sighed, gritting his teeth at the sting of pain he felt. They had possibly breaking his nose or cheekbone, and he tasted blood and bile.

"Of course I do. Just like him." He made a vague gesture to the man opposite to him whose eyes were dark, nearly black, and if Q would be better at reading faces he would have known that he was angry. "Listen, please. Do you know what Prosopagnosia is?"

They glared at him through the tiny holes in their maskes, none saying anything.

"Face-blindness. I can't recognise faces. Ever heard of it?" Still silence. He sighed, wishing he could roll his eyes without his head exploding and his brain cramping. "I don't know him. I **can't** know him. I don't know what you want from me but-"

"Do we need to break your jaw for you to shut up?"

That was enough of a threat to make Q shut up, if only because he got tired of the taste of blood in his mouth. He spit some more on the ground, and saw some flesh in the puddle, pink and tiny.

Q narrowed his eyebrows.

He had bitten through his tongue, and that was the tip. His stomach turned and he felt sick, and only for the sake of his pride he didn't throw up right here onto the ground or himself, and only pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Now. We give you three more chances, and if we don't hear a name until then, we'll shot the bastard through the head. Not pretty." The man laughed. "Brain splattering, blood, part of his skull. It would be a shame to destroy this handsome face, wouldn't it?"

Q turned his head, closed his eyes and threw up.

They laughed, hit the man in the stomach just because and then left the two alone, staring at each other in silence.

"Are you okay?", Q asked after a while, wetting his lips and spitting to get the taste of bile and blood out of his mouth, slowly feeling dizzy and light-headed.

There was no reply, and no matter how often Q asked he was given no answer. He knew the man was capable of speech, or at least of making noises, so he had no idea why he wasn't talking. He didn't even move, he only sat there, staring at Q without blinking, unmoving, face blank and cold.

Q sighed to himself and closed his eyes, wondering when James would come.

xx  
xx

The men came back after two hours and forty-five minutes, and they had a whip with them.

A long, thin one, and the one holding it was the kidnapper with the limp. 

"What is his name?"

"I don't know."

They hit the man on the cheek first, and Q could see how they drew blood, saw how his skin was shred open and saw flesh underneath. The man grunted, hands clutched into fists, knuckles white.

They hit him another time, this time on the back, and not only skin broke but also his shirt. Pieces of the fabric flew through the air and onto the ground, and Q wondered if it had been white before, because all he could see now was blood which had soaked the fabric.

The room smelled of bile, rotten flesh, blood and of metal, and he could smell sweat, and dirt, and he wanted to shower and brush his teeth, but he couldn't.

The next time the man lifted his hand and let the whipe swoosh through the air, the tail hit the man's arm, drawing more and more blood until soon, after another hit and another and another, the man's skin was red, and not pinkish-rosé anymore.

Everyone else would have cried by now, or screamed or begged, but the man made no sound. He grunted, but that was it. He flinched, twitched, licked his lips and gritted his teeth, he tensed and rolled his shoulders, but he was nearly motionless except for that.

"Do you know him?"

"I don't know him."

One left, and the other two kept on hitting the man, they kept on using the whip to hurt him, mark him and break his skin.

Q flinched every time, his eyes wide, his stomach turning and his mouth dry.

He didn't know the man. He didn't know him, he shouldn't care but he did. And as they hit him another time, he wished he could help him.

Make up a name, and give them what they wanted.

He wished he could give them the name and make them stop, but he couldn't.

"We give you one last chance, and then he'll be dead."

The third one returned with a gun in his hand, a simple one, those of the kind Q usually upgrated and made better. Standard, tiny, only a few bullets in the magazine, but he doubted that they would miss.

His blood froze, and he stared.

"Give us his name, tell us if you know him, and he'll survive." The American took the gun, checked the ammo and then pressed the barrel against the man's temple, finger at the trigger. "If not, he'll die."

"I told you-"

"Shut up. Stop your little lie, it's getting idiotic. Do you know him?"

Q let out a long breath, and then shook his head.

The man's eyes met Q's and he smiled, blood pouring out of his mouth and spilling onto the ground, probably because of the hits from the metalic knuckles.

In the silence of the room Q could hear how they released the safety, finger pressed on the trigger and shaking lightly.

The man took a deep breath, licked his lips and then said one word.

It was the first time he had spoken since they both had woken up in the room, far away from England, surrounded by coldness, dirt and dust.

It was the only thing Q would have needed, and yet it was the last he had wanted.

"Ben."

Q's eyes widened, and he realised.

He realised, and everything inside him screamed and cried and he wanted to shout 'No!' but he was stunned and paralysed, and he couldn't move.

Tears shot into his eyes.

_No. No. Oh god no. No. No._

_Please._

_No._

The blue eyes were closed, and tension leaked out of the other's body, as if he was accepting his fate.

Q wanted to close his eyes, but couldn't.

The man let out a chuckle, nodded.

There was a shot.

Q screamed.


End file.
